


Among the Flowers

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Gen, Post 1x11, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22349560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Like the carnation, he can fake it. Put some rouge and a smile on and be healthy. Hide its wayward turn in practiced scales cloaking shrill to din. Until his reserves run out and darkness thrusts inside, boring for lingering sins.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Comments: 3
Kudos: 40





	Among the Flowers

Daisies curled and reached for the ceiling. A lily coned and lit the counter. Stray roses hid between greens and filler carnations. Baby's breath sprawled in the empty spaces. Bright white petals rallied to lift the room, carrying voices of support long gone.

"I need you _alive_ ," swooned down the curve of the lily.

"You _call_ me," cradled the neck of the daisy.

"If you need anything," whispered the baby's breath.

A gaggle comforting "I'm sorry for what you lost" wading into "I'm sorry for your loss." Words repeated so many times in his head they became his own. Questioning his life from the counter.

Like the carnation, he can fake it. Put some rouge and a smile on and be healthy. Hide its wayward turn in practiced scales cloaking shrill to din. Until his reserves run out and darkness thrusts inside, boring for lingering sins.

Continuing into his dreams, the rose brushing along her wrist, trailing petals seeping crimson in their wake. Creeping thorns twisting around his wrists, fear rooting in every crevice. Conspiring with Queen Anne's lace that with a slip they'd take him now.

Watching the wall heave under his arms whipping forward, flailing to pull free. Yet freedom's left in the basement of his mother's house all the sunshine and daisies can't bring him back to. The vines twine tighter in a winless tug of war, resisting each attempt he musters.

A low moan swallowed in a wail as they constrict his maimed wrist. Rocking shaking the bed frame when he can't get loose, can't feel latches promising tomorrows. With a hammering of flicks and bleats he lands on the floor in a breathless heap.

They hit a stalemate, flowers taunting him to move and his body turtling in protection. It's so broken the fucking floor is comforting. Holds his back in an embrace he doesn't need telegraphed. Chills his forehead and cheek. Disperses his thoughts so they evaporate into the ether.

But the funny thing about biospheres is nothing escapes. When he eventually considers movement, the clouds weigh in, pouring desolation. Wallowing with an old friend.

Day turned night turned day turned fight. Eyes blacken from self-inflicted pummeling. Judging turns, choices, too many heckling voices, following pound after pound he breaks.

And then the light peeks in. A hand on his face, grasping the base of his neck, padding for the gentle thrum that reminds he’s alive. Feet retreat and a weighted blanket enfolds him. Whirs and beeps and heat creeps across his stomach, weaving through knots and skin. A cool press against his lips and there's liquid replenishing his parched mouth. “Didn't know I was thirsty," he tells the air, haze shielding his body from his mind.

Cuffs release the chokehold on his wrists, tossed aside to insignificance. Whistling becomes broth becomes salt and stars nourishing his barren stomach. Is he feeding himself, or the birds? Steeped in air or earth? Tries to move him from the floor, but he's all limbs surrendered unwillingly, ripped and split asunder. Wilts to a chair until the clock chimes to try again. Again because he’s family. Because no one deserves to be trapped. Because somewhere in the pile of nothingness is a boy pleading “just one more stakeout.” One more.

A petal's missing from daisy's crown. The lily's twisted upside down. Withered tendrils fall, but no one cares. A last breath on the counter. And a broken, lonely stare.


End file.
